Happy Retirement, Mitch!

Well, well, well—if it isn’t the Grim Reaper of the Senate finally shuffling off into the abyss, his shell cracked, his soul long since pawned off for one last round of tax cuts and judicial hijackings. Mitch McConnell, America’s favorite political corpse, has finally decided to retire—not because of some grand epiphany, not because the weight of his sins finally crushed him, but because gravity and basic bodily function caught up with him first.

It’s been quite a run, Mitch. Five decades of sucking the life force out of democracy like some kind of turtle-faced Nosferatu, leeching every last drop of decency from the American political system until all that remained was a gangrenous husk of partisan hackery and corporate handouts. You were never a visionary, never a leader—just a slithering, backroom dealmaker with the charisma of a tax audit and the moral compass of a used car salesman running a Ponzi scheme out of a strip mall.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, you became the most powerful man in Washington. A political crypt keeper, embalming progress, cackling over the filibuster like some deranged museum curator protecting a pile of dinosaur bones. Your greatest achievement? Turning the Senate into a nursing home for bad ideas, where legislation goes to die and decency is left to rot in the hallway like an unclaimed corpse.

But now, after a series of public malfunctions that made Joe Biden’s verbal misfires look like Shakespearean soliloquies, you’ve decided to hang up your cloak and scythe. And not a moment too soon, Mitch. America has been watching you glitch out like a broken animatronic at Chuck E. Cheese, freezing mid-sentence at press conferences, tumbling down stairs, and getting that haunted “blue screen of death” look in your eyes every time a reporter asks if you plan to run in 2026. Spoiler alert: No, you don’t. You’ll be lucky if you make it to 2026 without turning into a cautionary tale about why we shouldn’t let octogenarians run the country.

But let’s talk about your legacy, Mitch, because that’s what really matters. What will history say about you? That you were a master strategist? A political genius? No, Mitch, history will remember you as the smirking, soulless little gremlin who sold the country down the river one judicial appointment at a time. You thought you were playing four-dimensional chess, but in the end, you were just a pawn in Donald Trump’s undersized, greasy hands—a miserable little footnote in the great tragedy of American democracy.

You could have stopped Trump. You could have buried him after January 6, when you had the chance. But instead, you did what you do best—nothing. You let the orange buffoon off the hook, muttering something about "criminal justice" handling him later, as if the court system you rigged in his favor was ever going to hold him accountable. And now look at you: retiring in disgrace while Trump rides high, surrounded by bootlickers and lunatics, reshaping the GOP into something so grotesque even Richard Nixon would be clawing at the lid of his coffin trying to escape.

You spent your whole life consolidating power, only to end up a punchline—a broken-down, malfunctioning fossil, mumbling your way through press conferences while Trump calls you “Old Crow” and mocks your wife with racist slurs. That’s the best part, Mitch: he never even respected you. You did everything for him, debased yourself, torched every bridge to reality, and he still treated you like a dented can of expired soup taking up space in his cupboard.

But hey, enjoy retirement! Maybe take up painting, like Bush. Maybe shuffle around Kentucky’s bourbon distilleries, sipping Old Crow, wondering if it was all worth it. Because here’s the thing, Mitch—history doesn’t care about "legislative genius" or "tactical brilliance" when it comes at the cost of the country. You’ll be remembered not as a mastermind, but as a political cockroach—scurrying in the dark, surviving, outlasting your enemies, but never actually winning.

So, farewell, Mitch. May your retirement be long, humiliating, and filled with endless reminders that despite all your efforts, your greatest achievement was being the guy who enabled Trump, only to be discarded like a used napkin.

Happy retirement, you withered old bastard. History will write your obituary in ink as cold as your heart.

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